


Illustrating The Prophecy

by snelf



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Auri-El, Dawnguard DLC, F/F, Snow Elves, falmer - Freeform, first era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snelf/pseuds/snelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark times were coming and all the Divine protection in Tamriel could not see him through, he feared. No. </p>
<p>It was not to be Auri-El’s hand, but Althadan Vyrthur’s guiding the Chantry in the uncertain days to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illustrating The Prophecy

Falior Vorlen’s time was up.

Althadan watched the man with a guarded expression, curbing his desire to frown. His gaze wandered as the traveler babbled on, the desperate edge to their raised voice picking up in the cramped space. Clad in dirty leather and caked in grime his anxious guest contrasted sharply against the subtle opulence and calm demeanor of the Chantry around them.

The visitor stood amongst piles of books that reached up almost to their waist in places, stacked clumsily and in various stages of collapse. Loose papers with spider-leg scrawling littered surfaces like shedded leaves, and jutting up from them were candles of numerous size- some still lit- stuck upon the hardened puddles of their melted predecessors. Unchecked wax trailed down table legs to form solid white splashes on the faded rug. He had perched himself on the edge of his working table that stood near the far end of the room opposite the only doorway, almost knocking over an ink pot in the process and jeopardizing the legitimacy of several lengthy scriptures. Sunlight streamed in from a thin window built vertically into the stone wall to his right, cutting bright gashes in the room’s murk in which specks of dust twirled and danced. He watched them for a moment, eyes glazed as his ears tuned out the agitated elf’s chatter and his mind turned to darker things. Outside the narrow window the sun blazed at it’s highest point, reflecting harshly off the fresh snow and bathing the valley in Auri-El’s grace. He would have to begin moving things soon, there could be no more time to delay. The world apparently wasn’t going to wait any longer as his uneasy visitor poured worrisome tales into his head and Althadan felt his thoughts constricting his throat like a collar, the clammy air in the study pressing thick against him. Dark times were coming and all the Divine protection in Tamriel could not see him through, he feared. No. It was not to be Auri-El’s hand, but Vyrthur’s guiding the Chantry in the uncertain days to come.

“Arch-Curate?”

So absorbed in the stormy undercurrent of his thoughts had he been that Vyrthur had not noticed the ceaseless talking of his guest had finally paused. Keeping the man appeased with vague affirmations and muttered one word answers had been enough up until now, but perhaps he had missed a cue? Straightening, a loud crack filled the pause and his weary grimace deepened. Sitting at a table most of the day writing out this and that had taken its toll on the arch-curate and he was suddenly filled with the desire to experience some fresh air first hand. Rapping his knuckles lightly on one of the less cluttered spots on his desk, Vyrthur focused the full force of his gaze on the stranger.

“My sincerest apologies, Falior, but I have many pressing commitments I must see to. Perhaps this can be continued at a later time.” It wasn’t a question, the arch-curate’s voice dry and monotone in his disinterest. Continuing their discussion was definitely something Vyrthur had no intention of doing, and the elf’s incessant pleas fell on closed ears. This talk of fighting and violence and power struggles held no place in his Chantry, and only heightened his suspicion of the traveler. A tarnished short-sword hung from the stranger’s hip, sharp despite it’s obvious age. He noticed a glowing orange film misted across the weapon’s surface from time to time like ripples in water. It wouldn’t been an unreasonable leap of logic to assume the man was here for a darker purpose, an assassin with an elaborate ruse hired to pick him off. Althadan Vyrthur was a powerful man and he had no shortage of enemies, from jealous and bitter scholars circling like vultures ready to tear at the carcass of his career, to crazed mages and degenerate humans seeking the Chantry’s collection of powerful magical artifacts. The arch-curate narrowed his eyes and took a step to the left, making it seem as if he was merely brushing dust from his workspace while distancing himself slightly from the visitor.

“But ser,-” Vyrthur’s head snapped round as the man persisted, this time allowing his ire to flash in his eyes. “Our people beg Auri-El’s help. His blessing could turn the skirmishes in the south around for us.”

Althadan bared his teeth and the stranger- an inconsequential farmer really, neither pilgrim or initiate or even an overly religious man- blanched and stuttered to a stop, for the arch-curate’s reputation for his easy temper was well known. In truth, Vyrthur considered himself a rather patient mer, willing to put up with listening to the qualms and complaints of the visitors of the Chantry on a very regular basis. His position required that of him; he was a pawn of Auri-El, spreading His will and blessing to his ice elf brethren. Of average height, with a crooked nose that had healed badly after an argument in his apprenticing days had gone awry and an angular but unremarkable face, Althadan Vyrthur was not a physically foreboding man though neither was he particularly approachable. It was his skill with the arcane arts that set him out from other people, and it was paramount that all visitors whether regular or new that came to take in the solace of the Chantry knew of his mastery.

The elf across from him was thicker, with lean bands of muscle defining his arms and shoulders, though he appeared smaller in the room when considered next to the arch-curate and his air of cold authority. Falior’s leathers were tattered and worn, his hand and fingernails encrusted with dirt. He had a bright angry scar above his left eyebrow, and his boots trailed thick mud and snowmelt into Vyrthur’s disorganized study. There was a tattered mountain flower tucked safely into a strap across his chest, perhaps a gift from a distant lover or a good luck charm for the long and dangerous journey, though it did nothing to alter the elf’s smell- after many days hasty travel to the isolated Chantry, it was a particularly hard task not noticing the elf before him. And he had knocked over a stack of books accidentally on his way in and had proceeded to spend the next few minutes stooped over, scooping up tomes and begging the arch-curate not to bring Auri-El’s disfavor upon him for his clumsiness.

“Arch-Curate, our people are being slaughtered.”

“And yet your skirmishes are just that, and I have received no more reports of human threats. I’m sorry Falior, this Chantry can not afford to spare any of our paladins. They are too few, and the recruits as of yet remain untested.” Turning away, Vyrthur forced the words through his teeth, making a conscious effort not to slow his speech so that the agitated elf could perhaps understand. He concealed his own consternation on the subject, though he could not quite stop the alarm from creeping into his tight expression. If what Falior said was true, that their Nordic neighbors had foolishly turned against them in an act of bloody revenge it only stood to reason that, if allowed to succeed, the opposing Nords would eventually come for the Chantry itself. Vyrthur’s knuckles stretched taut as he gripped the edge of his writing desk. It was one thing to pick off underprepared farmers and village folk, they’d not find it so easy should they try to breach his Chantry’s walls. Not only would their soldiers have to face the anger of his brother’s paladin’s, but the arch-curate would bring down the very structure of the building to stop it falling into the human’s filthy, heretical hands. All the more reason to begin preparations. A war was beginning in the south, and he would not leave his home undefended.

Althadan could feel Falior’s eyes fixed angrily on his back. The elven farmer stood ridged and tense, his hands balled into tight fists at his side. Magic hummed at the arch-curates fingertips, a subtle drop in the temperature and the faintest crackle of frost invading the woodwork of one very elegant table the only indication of his waning patience. He suppressed the desire to pace, to walk off his frustrations, to topple haphazard stacks with forceful kicks. Vythur wanted isolation, to brood and consider this new grim situation without his bothersome guest.

“Leave me, please.” It was a thinly disguised command, authority spilling into his voice as the snow elf rained in his emotions. Allowing himself to fall apart and fret in front of a visitor would be a huge sign of weakness, and one mistake Vyrthur would not be likely to make. They must look strong at all times, absolutely resolute if his Chantry had any hope of surviving the change that was coming.

“Then I have made this trip for nothing.” As quickly as he had filled up with anger, Falior seemed to deflate and sag. Sparing the wretched mer a glance, Althadan noted the puffy bags and gaunt expression that haunted the farmer. He looked dogged and exhausted. Vyrthur very much felt the same, though after a few moments he felt his bitter resolution crumble. He was not heartless, after all, and had the farmer approached his Chantry some months earlier the arch-curate would have gladly send the aid requested. These were certainly dark times for all.

It took only two steps to cross the confined space to the mer, though Vyrthur kept himself at an arm's distance at all times. He reached out, mouth pressed into a grim line and laid a comforting hand on the farmer’s arm: the best thing he could offer at this time. The farmer regarded him wordlessly, eyes glassy with visions of slaughter to come before turning away and starting towards the closed door. Vythur’s hand slipped like a dead weight to rest once more at his side. While he could not truly say he cared for the poor mer’s cause, his plight shifted something uncomfortable inside the arch-curate and existed as a stark reminder of his own dire situation.

“Falior.” Althadan halted the mer just as his hand grasped the door handle. “Go to the temple and pray before you return. Ask Auri-El for his protection and if you’re faithful He will surely send his blessings. Did Melmhes show you to me?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good. Find her once more and have her send my apprentice.”

“Thank you, _Spantelepelalia_.”

The arch-curate smiled, thin and strained and dismissed the elf with a mere inclination of his head. Turning back to his desk he began absently straightening torn and- in places- singed pages where his notes had gotten a bit too close to one of the numerous candle’s flames. Vythur listened to the attractive sound of his study door softly closing and breathed out heavily through his nose. With the farmer already out of mind, Althadan could return to his troubling thoughts.

Events had begun to spiral out of control, gaining speed as his world threatened to catch fire like a mage’s spell and burn all that he held close. His position and power were threatened, and if there was really to be a war then his Chantry would need to be stronger and more unified than before. Nothing would bring them to an end, not even the hands of the Divines. No matter what sacrifice- and his plans started today.

Althadan Vyrthur scowled to himself as his door clicked open once more.

“You sent for me, Arch-Curate?”

-

Okay, she had been listening in. But what was some friendly eavesdropping between the Arch-Curate and his humble apprentice? With her ear pressed against the heavy oak door Jerae could only make out the faintest rasp of voices, with the occasional phrase picked up here and there. From what snippets she had gleaned, the mage concluded that the strange visitor was bringing news of the lasting clashes against the Nords in the South. She had heard the tales pour in from uneasy pilgrim’s about the human’s desire to extract revenge into elven flesh. All the new initiates were talking about it- once the horror’s of their mountainside trials had faded and they were coherent enough, of course. And why should they not? Jerae had been horrified to learn of the slaughter that had desiccated the Nordic settlement of Saarthal, though the grim news had reached the Chantry awfully late.

Arch-Curate’s voice was controlled, yet even through the thick wood she could tell that he was barely keeping his temper in check. Having been the target of his ire many a time Jerae cringed for the poor stranger. Though he did love to shout, Arch-Curate had only ever properly beaten her twice for her misdemeanours. His heart just wasn’t in it, she reckoned, though his clouts to the back of the head when she lost focus left her skull rattled. But why was he refusing to send paladins with this man? These were peaceful times for the Chantry goers, with the growing war and it’s gruesome tales of blood and death warring on the other end of the country far from their existence.

Jerae listened as the Arch-Curate asked for her, and skittered clumsily away in panic when she felt the door handle give slightly. Slipping on the disastrously over-the-top woven rugs that lined the Chantry’s floor- a misguided attempt at making the cold stone building seem more homely, she supposed- the apprentice pressed herself into the wall around the corner, halting her noisy gasps and praying that the shadows would conceal her as she fought to quiet her thumping heart. There was a long pause in which Jerae feared she had been spotted, expecting the Arch-Curate to swoop round the corner to give her shoulders a good rattle, before the study door once more clicked open and a haggard snow elf shuffled past her makeshift hiding spot, heading in the direction of the temple. He was hunched over like he’d turned his back on the world, gaze fixed firmly on the floor and mouth set in a grim line. Jerae wondered if he hated the carpets as much as she did, before counting to ten under her breath and slipping back round the corner.

Better to just get it over with. She had been assigned research all day- which meant skulking about in the library, pretending to read the dry spines of ancient and dusty books written in dreadfully boring academic prose. Sometimes, Arch-Curate even had her translate dwemer volumes. Jerae particularly hated that, she just didn’t have the patience to learn useless archaic tongues. When would she ever need to meet a dwemer? The fact that she had not been informed of this meeting boded ill for the apprentice already, and Melmhes was a dry woman much like the dusty old books she had spent all morning poking at. There was little point waiting for Melmhes to seek her out and risk the dissipation of Arch-Curate’s already short levels of patience. Not bothering to knock, the elf slipped into the study and closed the door softly behind her.

Arch-Curate had his back turned to her as she walked in, and after announcing her presence Jerae stood respectfully and quietly near the door. He was preoccupied, his shoulders set in a stiff line and his movements slightly more uncoordinated than usual. She watched as he hefted a particularly large tome before setting it down untouched in another cluttered space. Anxiety spiked in her stomach and Jerae shifted on the balls of her feet. Surely he couldn’t be so upset she had made little progress in her morning studies? It was hardly the first time her full attention hadn’t been focused on a task.

“Ah, Jerae.” Arch-Curate’s gaze rested on the apprentice for a short moment before sliding on, and the feeling that he didn’t really see her crept uneasily up the mage’s spine. “Good. Have you been making progress today, _wel_?”

“I’ve certainly _looked_ at some books.”

In a heartbeat her old mentor was back, pinning her with a sharp gaze and unsatisfied frown. He held in his hands another volume, this one lighter than the last- though it still managed to make a substantial noise when he suddenly released his hold and let it fall onto the table with a loud thud. Jerae jumped and hung her head. She was lucky. Being the Arch-Curate’s apprentice was no small thing, and she was expected to do well. It reflected badly on the Arch-Curate if she didn’t, and her mentor hated being undermined.

“Couldn’t be bothered to learn the knowledge your ancestor’s left you again, was it?” His tone was dry, the question rhetorical. Jerae willed the blood to stop pounding in her ears. Arch-Curate only fully lost his temper when she did something exponentially bad- like the time she had lost control of a telekinesis spell and brought all the books in his study crashing down around them. He had beaten her for that, and then made her restack the chaotic mess. Although she had offered to order them all into some kind of coherent system, Arch-Curate had waved away the suggestion and muttered something about already knowing where everything was. His gaze was still burning into her, making her ears hot and uncomfortable and she dared not meet his eyes. Instead, the mage peered at the shattered fragments of glass that glittered as they caught the sunlight against the far left wall. The broken mirror was another victim of her mentor’s vicious temper, and from the looks of it he had been too preoccupied to have it moved.

Two unremarkable grey eyes stared back at her, set in a face that was still round from former adolescence. Twin blotches of pink stood out against the grey skin of her cheeks and her hair was stuck in a wild tangle that reminded her that she’d forgot to pull a brush through it this morning. Darker than most of her bone-white kin, it was Jerae’s only remarkable feature- and she liked it that way. No other elves that she knew of besides some of her kin staked a claim to it. And in sunlight, she liked to think, made it seem as if she was carved from the very mountains that encircled and protected their home.

Arch-Curate finally turned away and began gathering up fistfulls of paper.

“I need to speak with you. Not here-” He cut her off as she opened her mouth to ask why. “I’ve had more than enough of these four walls for today. You will meet me in the courtyard in a quarter turn. Do you understand? I expect you to be punctual, _wel._ ”

“Of course, Arch-Curate.” Jerae watched as her mentor nodded absently and grabbed a leather bound writing journal from a bookshelf behind her, her gaze apprehensively following his progress as he drifted from the room.

What did this mean? Jerae’s brows furrowed as she contemplated her mentor’s curious behaviour. It went without saying that the Arch-Curate was incredibly preoccupied, lacking even the heart to give her a proper scolding for her inadequate performance. Situations like this didn’t present themselves often and the elf decided to take full advantage of it, letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and feeling her muscles relax once more. Anticipation erased her anxiety and Jerae felt new strength zip into her, energizing. Whatever the Arch-Curate wanted to talk to her about must be terribly exciting. Though she’d never admit it, Jerae loved listening to her mentor recount wild tales of long dead kin and their heroic accomplishments, enraptured as he would explain in painstaking detail how this magical artifact came to be or that about a near unbelievable myth pertaining to the Divines. Arcane theory was something that had first driven her to apply for the position of the Arch-Curate’s apprentice, even if some days it felt more like she was the Arch-Curate’s study cleaner. And as long as that magical theory didn’t come in crinkled books that would have more use as kindling than things to be poured over.

It didn’t take long for Jerae to reach the courtyard. Though expansive, the Chantry had been her home now for many months now and the apprentice had taken every possibility she could to explore it’s twisting passageways. Curiosity was in her nature, along with the rather good knack for getting herself in trouble. The courtyard spanned 40 yards across, a circle of light grey stone nestled in the heart of the Chantry. Gleamblossoms, mountain flowers and a variety of flora Jerae had no names for ringed the outer edge, their heady scent lingering sharp in the crisp mountain air. The sub temperature drops of Mid Year would soon reach an end, giving way to Sun’s Height with it’s long days stretching, sometimes, for weeks even. Around its circumference a few trainee paladins ran laps, assigned personally by Knight-Paladin Gelebor depending on their individual stages. Orange light from the sunset from above bathed the space in a blazing glow that gave the illusion the courtyard was awash with fire, and for a second Jerae felt herself pause as a heavy feeling of vague dread crept over her.

The feeling didn’t linger long, however, as the apprentice mage spied her mentor grimacing at her from the far side and a much more imminent fear for her safety manifested. Not wanting to worsen his mood anymore than what had previously been done she hastened over, passing a group of initiates, their dark glares warning her to keep her distance. Suppressing a frown, Jerae dipped her head and concentrated on her own business. Her apprenticeship to the Arch-Curate set her apart from the other attendees of the Chantry, making the mage the target of her peer’s jealousy and ire. While pilgrim’s who made the Path of Enlightenment were permitted to stay at the Chantry for only a short period of time while they learned the knowledge Auri-El and his mortal servants had to teach, Jerae’s own apprenticeship would last many years. The faces around her were always changing and she felt the loneliness in her chest like a cold, hard stone. Only the paladin’s training matched the length of her own, though they had their own rigorous training schedule and she had never had the guts to approach any of the recruits.

The Arch-Curate didn’t comment on her timely arrival, though from the black look he threw her way the apprentice guessed she was already slightly late. Suddenly being back at the other side of the courtyard with the unfriendly initiates didn’t seem like such a bad prospect. When the silence between the pair had stretched to an uncomfortable length Jerae cleared her throat to speak, only to be stopped short once more with a sidelong glare.

“How has your research into our project been progressing?” though his voice was even and the question not unusual there was no missing the pointed edge to the Arch-Curate’s tone. Jerae blinked and stuttered as her stomach once more knotted.

“W-well, Arch-Curate. Ysur found some old Aldmer tomes that may hold some relevant information.” Ysur was the Chantry library master. He had always been especially kind to Jerae and held a soft spot for the younger initiates, getting just as invested in their work as his own. “But i’m having some trouble translating them. Marvelous, he called it.”

Arch-Curate’s hand swung up to collide with the back of Jerae’s head and she yelped in surprise. His clouts were more to shock and cow her into obedience than to inflict pain but the apprentice couldn’t help being put out each time it happened. She had never received this treatment at home and wasn’t sure Auri-El would approve of such behavior.

“You were told to keep this to yourself. If we succeed in this task the Chantry will greatly benefit. I won’t risk theft from hostile parties.” He growled, angling his body so he could both glower at her and the dwindling group of initiates lingering across from them. Jerae pouted and rubbed the back of her head.

They had been working on the side project in secret since the chilly start of Morning Star, soon after Jerae had first began her apprenticeship. The Arch-Curate shared little of his grander plans with the apprentice, though she understood it involved combining the techniques used to weave transportation magic into the Wayshrines of the valley with properties found in ice and snow magic. Jerae’s own part in the whole thing was smaller and simpler: while the Arch-Curate handled the practical application and testing of their spells, she brought to him relevant information that might benefit and provide breakthrough. Her mentor seemed sure that what they were doing would benefit all of their people, and Jerae was proud to be working on something so crucial in her mere apprenticeship.

“We must increase our pace. There are things happening, _wel,_ and our hand may be forced in days to come.”

“What do you mean?” Jerae’s voice was uncertain as she tipped her head back, scrutinizing her mentor’s face. Impassive as ever, he merely stared back with a grim set to his mouth. “Who was your visitor?”

“No-one important to you.” Arch-Curate pushed past her. “I will speak with my brother. Tomorrow you will begin some basic defense training-”

“ _Defense_ training?” Jerae’s voice was shrill with disbelief. What possible need could she, an apprentice whose only important task was to skulk about the library all day, need defense training for?

“And spend the remainder of your time searching for pertinent information. Do you understand?” His last words were punctuated and precise, an indication of his growing annoyance and the mage reluctantly swallowed her questions as her stomach flipped. Would there soon come a time when she would _need_ to know basic defense?

Her voice came out as an embarrassingly high whine. “How can I know what to search for if you won’t tell me what is going on?”

Arch-Curate paused and sighed deeply through his nose. He turned, and with the darkening sky at his back his expression was unreadable and indistinct. The last of Auri-El’s fading light glanced off of his shiny white pauldrons and forced the mage to narrow her eyes.

“I must ensure that this will work. I decide what is best for this Chantry. _You_ are just an apprentice.”

“I’m your apprentice!” Jerae spat back vehemently. She curled her fists, fingernails digging painfully into flesh while her frustration radiated out in waves. This cryptic conviction that something bad was coming was unusual even for the Arch-Curate, whose paranoia and distance often worked its own way into her bones and set her on edge. The snow elf glanced uneasily over her shoulder, toes clenching as she half expected to see a Nordic war party charging across the courtyard with their weapons raised. But the space was empty, the majority of the initiates having retreated indoors. Only a few paladins ran now, their breath misting like smoke in the cold mountain air.

“And you will do as I say.” Her mentor’s voice was tired all of a sudden and his shoulders slumped slightly as his will to keep up their conversation evaporated. “You’ve already told the Library Master. When the time comes, you’ll know- along with everyone else.” The Arch-Curate folded his arms. “Rest. If your training does not progress to my standard you will be punished accordingly. Now go.”

It was a dismissal even Jerae could not ignore and she turned away, eyes wide with dismay. Questions jostled in her mind, all left unanswered as her feet led the way to her small room without actually seeing anything. It was early yet, and after squirming restlessly about in her narrow bed for what seemed like an age the apprentice rose once more with a heavy sigh. Tension made her muscles ache, Arch-Curate’s words replaying in her head. Deciding that there would be no peace until she’d figured things out for herself, Jerae lit a candle and padded noiselessly down the empty hallways of the Chantry.

-


End file.
